Apoptosis
by Fears-of-the-Doctor
Summary: Apoptosis; noun - the death of cells that occurs as a normal and controlled part of an organism's growth or development.


The ground was soft and spongy beneath his feet, the grass tough and giving a spring to each of his steps. The wind was light and damp, a hint of an east wind coming through. The sun tucked itself under the horizon as the moon's awakening was hidden by oncoming storm clouds. He paid no mind to any of this; it didn't matter. Nothing here mattered.

He knelt down swiftly and threw harsh, demanding glances at the engravings on the tombstones. None of these were right. Why not? Why weren't they right? They couldn't be right, could they? Of course not-

Suddenly, the ground began to tremble and thick stone walls rose out of the ground and the earth was shaking and mashing against itself, the spongy dirt being churned up and the smell of the dark underground lay heavy in the air. But the walls kept creeping higher and higher with no escape; no latter, no rope, no secret passage way.

Why stone walls? Why stone walls? A shrill voice demanded to know, afraid to admit that it was afraid. So very, very afraid. His heart clawed at his rib cage, shrieking for its release; his lungs burned with the cold, harsh air of the dense underground world; that treasured mind pulsed and squeezed out any last knowledge it could, hoping, _dying_ , for a solution.

Water was moving in, seeping into his socks and filling his shoes. It moved quickly, weighing down his trousers as he whipped his head about frantically for a lost escape route.

 _What was the word?_

Yes, there was a word, a real word, a simple word, a word to save him! But what?

 _Think, think, think!_

His mind was dying, his cells having squeezed as much information out as they could and were now proving useless.

Murky, frigid water tugged at his undershirt.

He still couldn't _think-_

Black water was swallowing him up, taking his shoulders and neck. He wanted to yell out, he wanted help. _Help, help, help help help_

Water. Water was everywhere in his mouth, his ears, his nose, clouding his eyes. The dirty water reached the back of his throat, making him choke and gag on the gross, bitter liquid. He was drowning. There was no air. No air...The water was eating him alive-

"Sherlock...Sherlock."

An abrupt change; something warm...so much warmer than the water...air. This special air. It was soft inside his lungs and filled with such a pleasant smell...some cotton commodity was all around him. The rough stone walls were gone, replaced with something so lovely and pleasant...and his fear...his fear was stolen away by that phrase _Sherlock_...but his mind. His mind still felt so dead.

"Apoptosis," a voice croaked from planets far, far away.

"Excuse me?" There was that thing again; that thing that stole his fear. Maybe it wasn't _Sherlock_ but _Excuse me_ that saved him.

"It means programmed cell death," he commanded his head to move. It did. He shifted further into the sweet, soft pillows and blankets. "When cells have been completely used up, they preform apoptosis. A kind of cell suicide when they are no longer useful. I was looking for that word..."

"Yes, I know what it means. I _am_ a doctor."

Silence. _I_ am _a doctor._ So that saved him. Bless this doctor who kept saving him, and Sherlock didn't think that lightly. People hardly ever took the time to notice he needed saving, not as if he minded; he could get so much more done without being bothered with things such as life and death. So why was Sherlock laying, his eyes still closed and mouth barely open, and basking in the glow of being saved by a voice?

"Are...you alright? Sherlock?" the phrase was separated and drawn out, as if the speaker was hesitant in asking. It sounded like the voice knew Sherlock wasn't to be bothered with his own mortality.

"Mm...Yes, yes," his senses much more in place than when he had been awoken.

"You were having a nightmare, you know. That's...that's why I woke you."

"A nightmare, was it...?" Sherlock's mind was no longer addled with its fear, but now with sleep. He hadn't even opened his eyes, but he knew that voice belonged to John Watson, his faithful companion.

"Yes. You were sleeping fitfully," John told him. "I let myself and Rosie into the flat and started some tea before coming to find you."

Sherlock did not respond. He did _have_ something to say, but he didn't really _want_ to. Perhaps he was nervous. Yes, imagine: the great detective, the best in his line of work, nervous to say a little something to his partner in crime, so to speak. Or perhaps, and this was the better of the two options, Sherlock did not know how to express what he had to say. Facts were always easiest to deliver, never varying in truth nor mattering how they affected the other person; but feelings were...difficult. But as it happens, there were facts that Sherlock could tell John because Sherlock knew _for a fact_ what he wanted to feel. He wanted to capture some of the warmth John radiated and share it with him under these cotton blankets; he wanted to feel John's legs against his own, rubbing their shins together whenever one of them shifted to a more comfortable position; Sherlock wanted his hand over John's chest as he lay there, counting the heart beats and knowing that he was alive. These were the affairs that should take place if Sherlock was to feel that feeling he was trying to express.

"Do you...want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"The dream." John sounded exasperated.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound near the back of his throat, rolling over in the bed away from where John was standing. When he had rearranged himself comfortable, he said, "Sit down, then," as he watched the inside of his own eyelids. He had the vaguest suspicion that he would not be able to save face if he looked at John Watson with his fresh feelings.

"What?"

"Sit down."

"Rosie's in the other room, waiting. I can't sit down."

"You brought over her portable crib. She's fine."

"How do you-never-mind," Sherlock could here John rubbing his face with his hands, and he almost smiled to himself; a guess paid off every now and then. "How long is this going to take?"

"Not very," he responded lightly, listening as John sighed quietly and then the bed bowed at the pressure of another body resting on it. Sherlock imagined that the other man was sitting rather awkwardly on the the very edge of the bed, and, again, almost smiled to himself.

"Get on with it."

"With what?"

"The dream."

"Oh, right," Sherlock gave an almost mocking smile. "Please don't get so impatient. You were the one to suggest I talk about it."

Sherlock heard scratching, maybe John running his hand through his hair in irritation before saying, "alright."

"Well," Sherlock started abruptly. "There wasn't much about it; just Euros. It was a warped rerun of that night."

John was quiet for a moment before hesitantly speaking. "I thought you weren't afraid of your sister anymore?"

"I'm not," his reply was much too sharp for his own liking; Sherlock tried to soften his tone. "It was a difficult series of events, that's all. My mind is subconsciously revisiting it. There's not much more to it."

"If that's the case, then there's no point in forcing the conversation further," John said, standing up with a heavy exhale. "Come on, get up. The tea is going to get cold."

Sherlock heard the footsteps on the hardwood floor and the shifting of fabric as his dear friend left him. There was an abrupt pause in sound, and Sherlock opened his eyes to meet John standing uncertainly, halfway out the doorway.

"When you do really want to talk about it-if you need to-then I'm here," his eyes flitted around before briefly locking onto Sherlock's.

One day, that look was going to make him say everything, and Sherlock was prepared to kill himself over that fact.


End file.
